


stagger to your feet

by evanui



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Episode: s02e07 The Believer, Freeform, Gen, Hurt Din Djarin, Light Angst, ManDadlorian, Protective Din Djarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29575443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanui/pseuds/evanui
Summary: Solid wood slams into his shoulder while his head is turned. He grunts in pain. The spear clatters to the ground, and his armor—His armor shatters like glass.This is not his armor. This is not his armor and he can'tthinkabout that right now, comeon.(A character study of Din Djarin. Chapter 15: The Believer.)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	stagger to your feet

**Author's Note:**

> _Pain!_   
>  _You made me a, you made me a believer_
> 
> Believer - Imagine Dragons

The blaster lets out an empty little click.

_Dank farrik._ That doesn’t usually happen. His blaster holds more ammo than that, but this isn’t his blaster. His armor carries extra, but this isn’t his—

He hurls the blaster.

There’s a yelp as steel slams into flesh. _One down, three to go,_ he thinks, and settles into a fighting stance with a sigh. He's really not a fan of this plan so far. If this is all some trick to try and get him killed…

_Mayfeld, you better know what you're doing._

He registers guttural growling, a blur of muscle thundering towards him, and his mind falls back into the familiar patterns carved out by years of fighting. There's a spear thrusting its way into his vision. A spear. Yeah, he can work with that. The shaft sends shockwaves down his arms when it strikes his palms.

He has no strategy, just arms that push and pull by reflex and an all-consuming drive to live. There is a burst of movement and a flare of pain, and his brain observes, detachedly: _I am holding a spear._ The other man’s fists are empty. His leg slams into the pirate’s back, and he watches the body as it tumbles over the windshield. Two down.

Solid wood slams into his shoulder while his head is turned. He grunts in pain. The spear clatters to the ground, and his armor—

His armor shatters like glass.

This is not his armor. This is not his armor and he can't _think_ about that right now, come _on_. There’s another blur of movement, and his entire right side goes numb with pain. He collapses to one knee as shards of armor clatter around him, gritting his teeth against the spasms that seize his arm. He can’t move. He can’t afford not to move. He needs to fight back.

The spear hurtles down a third time. _MOVE,_ he orders his limbs, and deflects the shaft downwards with a grunt. He uses the pirate’s momentum to flip him over his shoulder and off the truck. Lets out a breath and sends the fallen spear into the final man’s chest. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

He looks up. There’s a new speeder approaching and another on its tail…

He may be Mandalorian, but he’s not invincible.

“Mayfeld, pick it up. Drive faster,” he shouts over the rumbling tires.

The truck accelerates and then bucks as it slows back down again. _“I don’t think fast is a good idea!”_

“What are you _doing?"_ he growls, adjusting his balance. Seven to one, and he has no weapons or beskar. He doesn’t like those odds.

Unfortunately for him, the odds don’t care about his opinion. The pirates bellow in some language he doesn’t understand and barrel towards him. (They don’t take turns this time, which is inconsiderate of them.)

He dodges the first body hurtling towards him and wrenches a spear out of the hands of the second. He knows he trained in the way of the spear long ago, but the memories don’t surface, so he decides _screw technique_ and swings the thing like a club. He twists around and strikes pirate number two solidly in the gut, but a blow from pirate number three sends him reeling. He's fighting a losing battle. Every time he drives one back, another comes at him, and nothing changes except that he’s getting wearier and wearier. He can’t keep this up forever. He can’t think about forever. Nothing exists except the now.

The spear jerks out of his grip. A blow slams the breath out of his lungs, and the roof of the truck rams into his chest. He jumps up again. His thoughts are disjointed and half a second behind; he feels more than thinks now, his entire consciousness funneled around the sensation of elbow colliding into skull and bloodied knuckles cracking against flesh. Forces tug him forwards and throw him back like a pebble caught in a sandstorm. He hits back blindly, but hands grip the sides of his helmet and the world flips upside down and he’s falling—

His back slams onto the roof of the truck and he can’t breathe can’t move can’t think. Hands scrabble at his chin and two more tug at the sides of his head. His helmet. No no no they’re going to take off his helmet. They’re going to take off his helmet and he’s going to die.

He's wrenching his head away. Flailing helplessly beneath the pirates' grip. He grips someone's forearms and tries to push them off his chest, but his bones are heavy and everything hurts and he's so, so tired. He can't see straight. Can't feel his limbs. The pirates' fists pummel an empty shell of a body.

(Giving up is not in his vocabulary, but his brain whispers that maybe this is it. The odds are not friendly today. Very very not friendly. He’s already outlived his life expectancy anyway.)

He jerks his head to the side again, but it's futile. His body is pinned down, one pirate's knees pressing his back into the roof of the truck while the other tries to rip off his helmet. He’s trapped. His body is trapped, and his mind is floating, up and out of his skin. He's going to die today.

He imagines not existing. The thought is more irritating than frightening. He would prefer to live, thank you very much, but it's no loss to the galaxy if he doesn't. He has no delusions about his own worth. He's going to die today, he thinks, and the words wander in idle circles around his mind: he's going to die, he's going to die.

His jaw clenches. He’s going to die wearing a storm trooper helmet.

_This is wrong, all wrong,_ he thinks deliriously. He lets his throbbing head thunk against the ground and muses on the wrongness of it all. He shouldn't have gone with this stupid plan. He shouldn't be on this stupid truck. He should be back on the Razor Crest with beskar on his head and his kid by his side, but instead he can’t see through this blasted storm trooper helmet and his ship is gone and so is the kid—

His mind slams back into his body like a spaceship crash. The kid. The kid needs him. He has to live.

He gives his aching muscles orders. _Up,_ he tells his arms, and his palms connect with the shoulders of the pirate kneeling on his chest. _Push._ He thrusts up and back, and the pirate flies over his head and off the truck. The other pirate is clinging to the side of the truck. He pushes himself into a crouch, spinning around and funneling all his momentum into a kick that knocks the pirate off. He’s on his feet by now, his heart thumping against his chest and his mind sharpened by adrenaline into a point. He has to live.

The last pirate must’ve escaped onto one of the speeders, because there’s nothing left on the truck except for the _beep-beep-beep-BEEP_ of an activated bomb stuck to the rhydonium. He strides forward and pries the bomb off the ground, hurling it into the oncoming pirates.

The explosion consumes two speeders before expanding outwards.

For a moment, all he knows is pain. And then he’s flying backwards, and his back slams into the truck, and his lungs. His lungs don’t work. He can’t breathe. He’s blistering hot and every part of his body screams in pain and he can’t breathe.

The adrenaline is gone now. He’s agonizingly aware of every single point in his body, and it _hurts._ There aren’t enough words for pain out there. Throbbing, burning, shooting, stabbing—yeah, he has that, he has them all.

He looks up, and there’s another speeder. Four. Five.

Every single pirate holds a bomb.

He’s lost. He has no beskar. He's in so much pain he can barely move. He has no weapons other than his fists, and somehow, he doesn't think trying to punch the bombs will be particularly effective. There’s no way out of this.

But.

His kid needs him.

The words pulse through every vein of his body. _His kid needs him._

If he has to take off his helmet to find him, then so be it. If he has to punch grenades out of his way to get there, then he will. The odds can go die in a sarlacc pit. He. Does. Not. Care.

He exhales and rallies what’s left of his willpower. Slowly, painfully pushes himself into a sitting position. He has to live.

_Stand up,_ he tells himself.

He staggers to his feet.

_Brace yourself._

His footing steadies.

_Raise your fists._


End file.
